Henry

 

 

The white walls around us were suffocating. They seemed to mock you, staring through your eyes and into the very bottom of your soul.

 

They were too blank, too modern. There was no comfort, decoration, or color.

 

The only sound was the steady beep of Chandler's heart rate monitor. At first, I'd spend hours staring at that damned screen, watching each rise and fall of his pulse and drink in the sound of each beat. It was the only reminder that he was in fact still alive, even if he looked the opposite.

 

The head nurse had come in to speak to me earlier in the morning, just a few minutes after I'd arrived. She'd thought Chandler's mother was the one signed in as visiting but instead walked in to see me sitting beside him, quiet as always. I'd started to feel that if I made too much noise, I'd be disturbing a sort of sacred peace surrounding the sleeping boy on the bed.

 

Sure, it was stupid. It wasn't like he could just wake up due to a loud noise and shake off the coma as if it never happened, but I wanted to be able to do something-anything to keep him comfortable. I didn't know if he could hear me, or if he even knew he wasn't alone, but I wanted to surround him in a bubble of safety and hide him away from anything that could possibly disturb his gently closed eyes and parted lips.

 

"Dr. Perez received Mr. Lee's most recent MRI scan results," she'd stated, her voice gentle, "There...isn't any news. His brain activity is still solid, but it's unknown when or if he'll be up anytime soon."

 

My chest deflated, and my eyes fell shut against my will. I felt her frail hand clasp my shoulder, softly patting in a way that I'm sure she assumed to be comforting. I didn't need pity. I wasn't the one lying unconscious on a hospital bed for the fourth week in a row.

 

An entire month.

 

He'd been in a coma for a whole month.

 

I wasn't the one standing somewhere between life and death, Chan was.

 

I turned my head, swallowing down the lump that was trying so desperately to form in my throat, "What does that mean?" I looked at Chandler's motionless form next to me, and then back to her soft brown eyes, "He could still wake up, right?" My voice had gone slightly frantic, the thought of losing him for good making my pulse spike and a cold sweat line my hairline.

 

She looked at me with a small, sad smile on her thin lips, clasping her hands in front of her and taking a step toward the door, "...Does Mr. Lee have a chosen Health Care Proxy?" She looked down for a moment, shutting her eyes slightly and then blinking back up to me.

 

My heart crashed through my ribcage and down into my stomach. My throat seemed to close as her words hit me.

 

Health Care Proxy?

 

How should I know? Neither of us had ever been in such a serious health situation before, and I assumed that his parents were the ones he trusted most to make such drastic decisions involving his health if he wasn't able to do so himself.

 

"I don't know," I told her, my eyes rimmed with fresh tears as I thought of my best friend on the bed next to me. I wondered if he could hear the conversation. I wondered what he was thinking.

 

"Well," she started, taking a deep breath, "Doctor Perez will be getting in touch with Mr. Lee's family to decide what measures to take shortly. Have a good day, sir." With that, she left the room, closing the pristine white door behind her and leaving me with the endless flow of horrible thoughts that stuck in my mind like a stain that I couldn't scrub away.

 

Why would she ask about a Health Care Proxy? People can be in a coma for months and still wake up, right? I read about it somewhere years ago, although now I cursed myself mentally and wished I'd paid more attention to that story. Why would she talk about taking drastic measures this early on?

 

I had too many questions and not enough answers. I knew she was only doing her job, but I couldn't fathom the thought of somebody simply signing a form that decided Chandler's fate.

 

We can't give up.

 

It doesn't matter how long it takes. He'll wake up. He has to wake up.

 

I know he'll wake up. Then everything could go back to normal.

 

A tear rolled down my cheek, betraying me as it dripped down onto my jeans. I rested my head in my hands, elbows propped against my thighs. I didn't want to cry anymore. I'd cried so much in the past month that you could surely fill a running river with my tears. It didn't make me feel any better, it just made me feel even more useless. It was a reminder that there was nothing I could possibly do to fix things.

 

I looked at him, the steady rise and fall of his chest doing nothing to ease the sickness I felt in my gut. It hurt so bad. I watched him almost every day. I barely ate, barely slept, and when I had to go back to the magazine firm to work, it was only then that I'd force myself to leave.

 

My own bed felt foreign to me. My body had become more accustomed to the hard chair propped next to Chan's hospital bed than my own home.

 

On days where his family would visit, I'd give them privacy. They didn't need to see another person crying over their son; they didn't need any more pain. After the first couple of weeks, I couldn't take seeing his parents and brother sitting there, just waiting.

 

Waiting for any sign of movement, any flutter of an eye or twitch of a finger. The disappointment that left with them each time ate me from inside out, so much that I'd stop showing during times I knew they'd be there. I couldn't bear to see Mrs. Lee's eyes filled with so much pain that they dissolved into an empty void. I couldn't watch as her husband would shake his head in defeat and shock, embracing her as she sobbed into his chest. It was a sick reminder that this was all real.

 

I'd gotten mental health leave from work for the most part. Luckily my boss had been understanding enough and knew how much of an impact that the situation was having on me. However, a couple of days a week, for a few hours, I'd go back to work. I'd sit at my desk and edit some articles or research and help out with anything else I could get my hands on.

 

It offered a small sense of normalcy in the huge, giant black hole that I'd been trapped in. If I worked hard enough, if I read enough articles and wrote enough manuscripts, it almost felt like before.

 

On Fridays, it almost felt like I'd get a call from Chandler asking when I was coming over for movie night and what food I wanted to have for dinner.

 

But then 5 pm would hit and it would all come crashing back to me, punching a hole through my chest and strangling my lungs.

 

The only calls or messages I would get were from his parents or his bother, checking up on me or giving me any news they'd heard from doctors.

 

Nothing was how it was before- the morning was back to normal. This was a reality.

 

Chan wasn't calling me, an evident smile on his full cherry lips I could practically feel through the speaker and a crinkle at the corner of his almond eyes.

 

Those honey eyes were shut, and those usually plump, luscious lips had gotten chapped. His warm skin had taken a paler hue, less golden and more white, closer to mine. His raven hair lay ruffled like a dark halo around his head, painting a shadow on the ivory pillow underneath him. His bangs dipped into his eyes, having grown in the time he'd been asleep, and as I brushed it away from his forehead, I couldn't help but let my fingers linger on his skin.

 

He was still so soft. It didn't matter that he hadn't seen the sun in weeks, or that he lay still for so long that I was sure if I moved him he would crack. He was still so warm, so soothing to touch. He was still my Chandler; my best friend since primary school, and the one I loved more than I could ever tell him- my everything.

 

At that moment, if I had a blank canvas and a brush, I would paint him how he was before, when he was healthy and awake and towering inches taller than me, looking at me with those soft eyes and that permanent goofy smirk etched onto his lips.

 

I would paint him how I want to remember him, not how I see him now. I wouldn't pain the empty shell of a man I saw lying there, hooked up to monitors and resting unnervingly still.

 

A part of me worried that the man I once knew was gone and that he was only a memory. It felt like he was starting to dissipate- like his body was still here, but his mind was somewhere completely different.

 

All I need is him. If I couldn't see that smile again, then at least I could still see those lips.

 

If I couldn't see those eyes staring into mine again, then at least I could still see those eyelashes casting a ghost of a shadow onto his cheeks.

 

If I can't feel his warm embrace, then at least I can hold his hand, even if he can't squeeze back.

 

Even if he never came back the same, if he lay here asleep for eternity, I would stay here.

 

I would continue to see him every day, to touch him and talk to him. I'd let him know that I'm here and that he's not alone, that I still believe in him; that I'm still waiting for him to wake up.

 

It doesn't matter how he changes from this moment forward. If I can't get him back to how he was before, then I'd adapt to the new him. I won't give up. He won't give up.

 

As long as his heart still beat, I'd stay there watching over that precious sleeping beauty until my own stopped.